


yearning

by unorganizedinorder



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29727930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unorganizedinorder/pseuds/unorganizedinorder
Summary: His eyes refocused on the Burned Man situated mere meters before him.Maybe there was something wrong with him. He’d never felt this way about a stranger before, and he’d never cared to have such self-awareness in the past, either.
Relationships: Male Courier/Joshua Graham
Kudos: 6





	yearning

“Sure, I can help. I mean–” he gestured awkwardly with his hands, shrugging his shoulders, feeling very bare before bright, analytic eyes. “I came with Happy Trails to work, so I suppose this isn’t that much different.” A lie. But disclosing his life story was unnecessary.

“Try not to think of it as work, but as a favor that could very well benefit the lives of many good people.” He spoke clear and even, as though everything he said had been rehearsed beforehand.

Mason had only just met Joshua, but he already knew that this man did not speak unless it was with purpose. He felt his inadequacies weighing on him: his stutters, not knowing what to do with his hands. The man before him did not hesitate in his movements – safety checking the magazine and chamber of every pistol with scrutiny and care – and the way he used his words was much the same.

“Work is work. It always benefits someone in the end.” A crooked smile fell over Mason’s lips, a misplaced effort to lighten the mood. The smile felt all wrong, with his brain flashing images of the massacre of Happy Trails.

The critical stare he was met with wiped the expression off his face at once. He averted his eyes to his feet, not wanting to face the implications of saying something so wrong it had completely stopped Joshua in his task. There was silence for a moment... and when the familiar, mechanical click of another magazine sliding into the the well of a grip resounded on the cave walls, it was a welcome relief.

Hesitantly, Mason breathed out, and dared to peek up beneath blonde lashes. Why did he feel as though he was treading a minefield? Did it truly matter what this man thought of him?

“In any case, your offer of assistance is appreciated. Follows-Chalk can help you find your way around the valley—” Joshua’s voice carried on, but Mason’s mind drifted. At that moment, he couldn’t help but feel like he had made a very bad first impression.

-

Mason rested the side of his cheek on his knee, glancing sideways at the man sitting next to him. His hand idly drifted in the dirt he sat upon. He was supposed to be focused – paying attention to the low voice reciting scripture to him like a practiced talent. He knew, and yet, the fire of the camp warmed him and lulled his mind to a blissful state. It had already been a long day of scouting, scavenging, and retrieving.

He could see from his half-lidded eyes, the one-handed grip that Joshua held his book of scripture with. The white of his bandages contrasted against the scar tissue that remained of his fingertips, and Mason recalled what had been told to him the day before.

The raw depth of Joshua’s voice as he recounted the events of the Grand Canyon – the rare emotion he spoke with when answering Mason’s request to help him with his pain. For someone always speaking with such calculative purpose, the disparity in tone was marked into Mason’s brain as something profound and important.

“...Are you still listening?”

Mason hadn’t noticed his attention had been called into question, and only realized Joshua was looking at him with expectance after the silence had set.

“Huh?” His eyes went wide when he realized he’d been caught in his thoughts. He hoped it wasn’t interpreted badly.

“You professed an interest in learning the Scripture. Was this true, or simply a pleasantry?”

Almost panicked, Mason’s head darted off his knees, and his eyes widened impossibly further. He met Joshua’s inquisitive gaze without blinking, wanting, somehow, to convey his sincerity. He had already unwittingly made a misstep upon first meeting the man, and he did not want to make a track record of his habitual fuck-ups. This isn’t how he wanted Joshua to know him.

“N-no! I mean, yes! I do have an interest.” He could feel the heat in his face. His nails dug into the dirt beneath him. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t– I didn’t realize how tired I was.” Again, he felt inclined to ashamedly avert his gaze.

“It’s all right. Perhaps we can continue some other time.” Joshua closed the scripture in his hand, and leaned forward to take his leave–

“Wait!” Mason blurted. “Maybe one more–” he paused, wracking his brain for the word that lay on the tip of his tongue “– _passage_... for the night?” For how little he knew and remembered about the religion of New Canaan, he hoped Joshua had noticed he was trying.

There was a pause, Joshua eyeing him with his usual critical stare. But then, it seemed an internal decision was reached, and Joshua re-situated himself and began to once again fold open the pages of scripture.

“All right.”

-

The ache in his feet demanded he find a place to rest, and the exhaustion of his mind screamed at him to get some sleep, but Mason persevered – trudging and sloshing his way through the entrance of The Narrows, reassuring himself that rest was coming. The heat in the air made him scrunch his nose, trying to clear his sinuses to get more oxygen, and he felt the caked dirt flake from his skin at the gesture.

He’d not completed all of the tasks Daniel had laid out for him, but he hoped two out of three was good enough for today. He didn’t know if he could force himself to carry on despite his lack of sleep, while also considering the exerting tasks he’d already completed for that day. All that was left was to deal with the White Leg totems, and somehow demoralize them from the upcoming battle.

Mason scoffed internally at the thought; he’d already faced multiple White Leg assault groups since his arrival in this stupid valley. He’d left all of them face down in their own blood. Their numbers must be dwindling, Mason assured himself, and there was no way they had an endless amount of bodies to keep sending after him. This valley wasn’t small, but it also wasn’t easy to enter. There was no way for the White Legs to receive backup.

As the Sorrows’ camp came clearer into his view, relief flooded through him. All at once, the added weight from his waterlogged boots felt lighter. He drew nearer to the main gathering area, and saw from a short distance Joshua and Daniel standing at the edge of the camp, near the water and away from the others. They were facing each other, probably engaged in some sort of discussion... or argument, given the circumstances.

Joshua’s back was to him, and Daniel caught sight of Mason first. Their eyes met, and Mason offered a small, half-smile in greeting. Daniel gave him a nod in turn. That alone must have notified Joshua of another presence, but he only gave a short side-glance over his shoulder in confirmation. Almost immediately, Joshua stepped passed Daniel’s side and set a quick stride, heading deeper into the Sorrows’ territory. The smile on Mason’s lips was but a ghost, and his mouth was left slightly agape in confusion. Did...Joshua leave because of him?

Standing still in his tracks, Mason watched as Daniel gave an exasperated sigh, crossing and uncrossing his arms, before he turned away with a shake of his head to rejoin the other Sorrows at the campfire. Brows furrowed, Mason wondered what could have just transpired, and hoped beyond hope that he hadn’t done something wrong again. He had yet to even give the news of the success of that day’s tasks.

Suddenly, despite the dry heat, Mason felt a chill through his whole body. He didn’t feel as welcome here as he had a few minutes ago. With his dirtied rifle still in hand, Mason turned away from The Narrows.

-

Perhaps it had been stupid to act on impulse and leave the safety of The Narrows. Mason wrung his socks out of the excess water from the valley, and laid them out against the rock face to dry. He was relatively safe here, having scaled a natural summit of jagged rock to settle for the night. The top of the surface was flat enough, and no enemies would be able to spot him, as long as he didn’t stand straight up. He figured this would do fine as a makeshift shelter. He would need to rise before the sun, though, lest he get baked in his sleep by the heat of Zion.

_Yes. Definitely stupid_ , he mused to himself. He’d acted similar to a child, believing the world revolved around him and his moodswings. There was no indication that he was unwelcome in the The Narrows beyond his own contrived narrative. There was nothing that supported the conclusion that Joshua was mad at him – _disgusted by your presence_ , an invasive thought asserted – only his own needless and unnecessary hurt feelings. And now, through his own stupidity, he was left to sleep on an uncomfortable rock.

An idle hand came up to rub and trace at the bullet scar near his hairline, and he wondered, not for the first time, if his poor social skills could be blamed on it. But it didn’t matter, he realized – he was who he was, and he couldn’t take back the past. He figured, then, that he might as well make himself useful, instead of dwelling and brooding on his mistakes.

He reached over and grabbed both his bolt-action, and his duffle. Setting the rifle in his lap, and fighting a moment with the duffle zipper, Mason upturned the bag and dumped the contents out over the rock face. Tossing the bag away, he lazily spread the items out with his hand, and immediately began reaching for magazines and ammo boxes.

The supplies he’d been stocked with when he’d first departed Angel Cave were becoming scarce; if he had to wager a guess, he only had 4 mags worth of .308 left. He had an abundance of .45, but his aim and combat skill with a close-range pistol were severely lacking in comparison to a long-range scope. He could still handle himself if pressed, but he would always prefer his bolt-action. It’s what he trained himself best in, and the long, harsh training wasn’t without reward.

His hand traced the length of the rifle barrel, his eyes becoming hazy as he turned the box of .308 over in his hand. He was still so tired – he didn’t know if he could fight it off anymore, despite the hard surface of the rock beneath him.

Setting both the ammo box and the rifle down beside him, Mason leaned over and snagged the bottle of whiskey that lay among the scattered ammunition. He didn’t hesitate; he uncorked the top and downed a few mouthfuls as quickly as possible. A hiss escaped him after the last swallow – a harsh way of drinking whiskey, but it was for purpose, not pleasure. The alcohol should help him sleep despite the conditions, at least.

_Joshua wouldn’t like it if he saw you do that_. Mason growled and shook his head – another dumb, invasive thought.

Putting the whiskey back among the mess, he reached over and again grasped his rifle. He pulled back the bolt and checked for a round in the chamber. All loaded, he set it carefully, vertically, to his side, and next grabbed for his empty duffle. He haphazardly folded the thing to bunch as much fabric up for cushion as he could. With a final glance over his things scattered around him – mental inventory check – Mason laid back and stuffed the balled up duffle beneath his head.

Closing his eyes, with one hand on his rifle, he waited for the whiskey to kick in, and tried his best to get some sleep.

-

He was staring again. Though, not directly this time. His face angled ever so slightly away, with his eyes peering a hesitant side glance. He still found it hard to piece the stories together – to connect the legend to the man. It’s not as though he had firsthand witness to the supposed combat prowess of the fabled Burned Man, he tried to remind himself, and he may yet to find that he is treading dangerous territory with his involvement in Joshua Graham’s plight in Zion.

When he’d left the Mojave, there had been a specific driving factor: an escape. Escaping his unintentional entanglement in the politics and varied warring factions, and...where had he ended up now? Was the situation in Zion so different? Was this truly the escape he wanted?

Joshua was before the light of the campfire centered at the Sorrows’ settlement, ever focused on the seemingly never-ending organization of the stockpile of weaponry and ammunition. A simple image of a simple task, but foreboding of the imminent conflict all the same. Hushed voices of a language he did not understand being carried with the wind, heard above the crackling of the fire. 

Just...what was he truly doing here, Mason internally questioned himself. His eyes refocused on the man situated mere meters before him. He could lie to himself, but he already knew why. An aching curiosity – a burning wonderment. The dichotomy of the stories of the vicious, ruthless killer, and the man wearing ordinary clothes (concealing a seared, bandaged body), completing mundane tasks for a tribe he claimed to be indebted to. People he claimed to _love_.

Mason wanted to know. More, he wanted to see with his own eyes. But beyond the curiosity, he felt an inexplicable pull to be near that man – to catch the attention of those bright eyes and leave a memorable impression. To, somehow, be wanted even a fraction of the want he felt, in turn. To hear that insanely low voice give praise to something about _him_.

Maybe there was something wrong with him. He’d never felt this way about a stranger before, and he’d never cared to have such self-awareness in the past, either.

He averted his gaze, and squeezed his eyes shut, bringing his legs closer to his chest. A silent breath escaped him. His surroundings faded back into focus. The warmth of the fire in the chill of the night, the shuffling of nearby Sorrows, the flowing water of The Narrows. He supposed questioning what he was doing here was a redundant matter – he’d already fallen into his usual habit of getting tied into something he barely understood.

He just– he hoped it would be worth it.

-

Another splatter of blood against the canyon walls. Another group of bodies hitting the rocks that made up the ground. Joshua led a few paces in front of him – the leader of their two-man squadron – slowly and methodically navigating their way towards Three Marys caverns. Mason had spent a little over a week exploring all the highs and lows of Zion’s valleys, and yet, in these moments, the miles seemed to stretch infinitely longer than he ever recalled before.

Beyond Joshua’s initial briefing of their mission, there were little words exchanged between them. Mason had quickly fallen into step with Joshua’s style of combat – no direction needed. The way they soundlessly worked together seemed almost too perfect, and though this realization stood starkly out in Mason’s mind, there was ultimately no time to muse on it. 

With his bolt-action and scope, Mason took to higher grounds, spotting enemy groups from afar, and carefully picking out the stragglers, dwindling their numbers. Joshua covered both medium and close range, with Mason providing overwatch. The way Joshua moved deserved its own novel of appreciation. Silent and swift delivery, with precision beyond compare. The numbers of the enemy did not matter. Joshua worked in a two-step finality: Identify. Execute.

Rounding a sharp outcropping of rocks, Mason was stopped in his tracks by a hand on his shoulder. Joshua was peering around the sharp angle in front of him, holding them both from proceeding. Mason understood at once. He did not ask questions, and did not attempt to see beyond Joshua’s frame – he held fast and differed his trust and the decision of the next course of action to Joshua. (The hand on his shoulder was so warm– _focus, focus, focus_ – was this the first time he’d felt Joshua’s touch?– _stop, stop stop!_ )

Mason’s index finger tightened around the trigger guard of his rifle, and he waited, his eyes fixated on Joshua. Joshua changed stance and braced himself, eyeing down the sights on the short slide of his .45. (The new cold spot on Mason’s shoulder stung.) A shuffle of movement. Three resounding shots echoing off the back of each other in quick succession. The utter silence that followed was piercing. No screams, no shouts. No survivors. Mason wondered, then, and not for the first time, if his presence in this mission was even necessary.

**Author's Note:**

> More information about my courier boy here:  
> <https://sordm5.tumblr.com/tagged/oc-shepherd>


End file.
